


Fermata

by Northern_Lights



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Music AU, Musician!lock, Pianist John, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Lights/pseuds/Northern_Lights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Sherlock is the most brilliant violinist in all of England, and Molly is his unappreciated music librarian.  John is his pianist, Mycroft is his reluctant manager, and Mrs. Hudson is still "not his housekeeper".  Eventual Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Da capo

**Author's Note:**

> My very first fan fiction, hope you enjoy! As you'll see I write and post pretty short scenes, so sorry if that's not your thing. They will get longer as time goes on. Feedback is highly welcomed!

This was not Molly's plan. When she went to Julliard her vision was being one of the greatest music history professors that ever lived. The kind that made ground-breaking discoveries about long-dead composers, and had a whole team of eager students to help her research along, the kind that everyone wanted to talk to for consultations or appraisals.

Being Sherlock Holmes' librarian was not what she'd envisioned for herself.

"I'm s-sorry Sherlock but I can't get you the original score. It's hundreds of years old and I was barely allowed to make a c-copy." She tried to explain to the unreasonable man. Said copy was scattered on the ground, all 67 pages.

"No, that won't do. I need the original Molly. Get me the original." Despite having just thrown the entire photocopied score all over the floor of his flat, Sherlock was perfectly calm. Molly was used to this. If he felt he 'needed' it, it wasn't a matter of opinion, it was simple fact. He needed it.

"Unless you wear gloves while h-handling it and agree to review it in an air locked facility, they won't let you." She recounted what she felt was a perfectly reasonable solution.

"Then don't tell them. Surely they won't notice if it's gone for one night." He dismissed her answer.

"I can't."

"Your eye shadow." He changed the subject abruptly.

"W-Wha-"

"It's blue, you've never worn blue before. It compliments your eyes." He noted, his voice was smooth as silk. Molly turned away to hide her uncontrollable smile, she didn't think he'd notice. 

"Anyway, you can bring me the manuscript tomorrow morning. Coffee too. Black two sugars, I'll be here." That was the standard 'goodbye'.

"Okay." Was all Molly could respond with before turning and leaving 221B Baker Street.

She wasn't blind, she knew he complimented her just to get her to do what he wanted. She was however hopelessly in love. It was why she'd stayed, even with her PhD and her top marks. She'd stayed for Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant violinist in all of England.


	2. L'istesso tempo

"Morning Molly." John greeted cheerfully from his recliner. He was dressed in a blue and white striped, long sleeved shirt and dark jeans. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, newspaper in hand.

“Morning.” She flashed a quick smile at him. 

"It's on the kitchen table." He directed her. "Don't worry, I sorted all the pages out for you. It was an absolute mess before."

"Oh, thank you. You didn't have to, I could've done it." Molly picked up the stack of music and tucked it into her satchel.

"He managed to get at least three pages in each room, I didn't see why we should both suffer hunting for them." John snorted. Molly smiled. She and John had become very good friends.

John was Sherlock's flat mate and pianist. Molly saw him every day and they'd even gone out for dinner a few times with friends. He was the embodiment of a 'nice guy'. Happy, funny, a little sarcastic, smart (not many people realized it since he was around Sherlock all the time), and caring. Despite this, Molly couldn't seem to develop any romantic interest. Partly because he had a girlfriend, but also because 'nice guys' weren't apparently Molly's type.

"Move." Sherlock's commanding voice boomed from behind her. She jumped slightly as he strode by her. He was wearing his purple shirt- a particular favourite of Molly's, around which she could never seem to talk properly. 

"John start at measure 29." He already had his violin out. John sighed and put his newspaper down, making his way to the baby grand piano across the room.

"Molly, coffee." Sherlock said almost absentmindedly. He was rosining his bow.

"S-sure. John do you want anything?" She asked. He shook his head politely as he sat down on the piano bench.

"No thanks."

"He's lying, he'd like a blueberry muffin. He's trying to lose weight but I cannot practice with his stomach making those infernal noises." Sherlock didn't even look up. She saw John blush slightly.

"You don't have to-"

"No, it's fine." Molly waved it off. She was going to the coffee shop anyway. As she walked down the stairs she heard John's voice.

"You know, I actually have moral qualms with treating her like a personal slave." His tone was half sarcastic, and half reprimanding. She strained to hear a response, but all she got was the sound of Sherlock tuning his violin.


	3. Marcato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the chapters are getting longer! It may be awhile until the next chapter comes out though, as exams are starting for me. Thanks for bearing with me :)

"This is a bad idea." Molly murmured anxiously, shifting in the luxurious velvet seat of Barbican Hall.  
   
"Mycroft said it would be good for him.  More exposure." John pointed out.  "But yes, it's a terrible idea." He conceded.  The two of them sat in the front row of the Hall, watching the London Symphony rehearse.  
   
In theory, it was perfect.  Sherlock was to perform alongside the London Symphony as a soloist.  It was good publicity and good exposure to a different audience.  
   
However, Sherlock didn't play well with others.  
   
John and Molly tensed as he strode on stage, violin in hand.  Whispers of 'it's him' rippled through the symphony.  
   
"Alright, settle down." The conductor tapped his baton against his stand.  Molly couldn't remember his name.  Grahame?  Gavin?  Sherlock only referred to him as 'Lestrade'.  He often came to Sherlock for advice on pieces.   
   
Molly thought Sherlock actually liked him.  Although he disrespected Lestrade's position as a conductor, his insults were never toward the man himself.  Well, none of the really cruel ones, anyway.  
   
The symphony started playing and Molly closed her eyes, listening to the music.  She tried to leave all worries concerning the dark haired violinist aside and enjoy Berlioz's iconic first movement of Symphonie Fantastique.  When Sherlock's solo part came in Molly sighed.  Traditionally there was no solo violin but he'd written the part himself.  It was perfect, blending in with the feel of the piece yet contrasting it beautifully.  Words couldn't express the expertise and mastery with which Sherlock played.  It always left her breathless.  
   
The first movement ended, and Lestrade signaled for everyone to stop.  There was a wave of noises as people put their instruments down.  Molly saw John lean forward a bit, watching for what was going to happen next.  She held her breath apprehensively as Sherlock simply stood there, his narrowed eyes scanning the symphony.  He didn't look impressed.  
   
 _Perhaps I should've gotten a getaway car ready_.  Molly groaned, Sherlock was about to make a lot of people extremely unhappy.

"Second clarinets bar 23 you're holding the notes too long. The result is horrid intonation by the last dying beat." Sherlock aimed the violin bow menacingly.

 _So far not too bad._  

"Oboe change your reed, you sound like a mutilated cat.  I don't care if you have to use a woodchip, anything's better than  _that._ " Sherlock whirled around, glaring at the only oboist, then turned to the violin section.

"Ah, first violin." His smile was terrifying.  "Stand up, go on."  The man did what he was asked.  "What's your name?"

"Anderson." The violinist raised his chin proudly.

"Well Anderson, you're shifting into third position instead of fifth.  Either you play at the level of an eight year old or you're just too busy ogling the bass clarinet to display any level of competence." He snapped.

 _And there it is._  Molly winced.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw John putting his face in his hands.

"I beg your par-" Anderson sputtered indignantly.

"Don't waste your breath." Sherlock dismissed him.  "You, second violin third stand, eating disorder." He called.  Molly winced.  "Bar 56 is syncopated, not a triplet.  Figure out the difference and maybe you'll move up a stand or two."

"Alto sax, white sweater.  Warming up with long tones will make all the difference although I'm not sure it'll help get your husband back, especially after you cheated on him with your...neighbor?  No...landlord."

 _Do something_.  Molly nudged John.

"Blue dress, glasses, if you'd quit mooning over your stand partner maybe you'd actually come in at the right time."

"Sherlock." Lestrade voiced his exasperation.

"No need to worry I'm on my way out now." Sherlock walked past all the musicians as they stared at him with shocked expressions.

"I don't ask much people, just perfection!" He called behind him, and promptly disappeared off stage. 

"And that's our cue." John said, throwing on his jacket. Molly followed his lead, hurriedly grabbing her satchel from the floor and dashing after John towards the exit.


	4. Affabile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Molly's private life outside of the music world, quickly interrupted by Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updated, sorry for the wait! I included a poster I made that's mentioned in the chapter :)

 

 

"Are you kidding me?  And no one said a word?" Molly's friend Amelia laughed.

 

"I think they were just in shock."

 

"I'd imagine so." Amelia picked up her tea from Molly's coffee table to take a sip.  They were in Molly's flat, sitting on the white couch in her living room.

 

"The final concert was a complete success though." Molly could still hear the thunderous applause ringing in her ears.

 

"Don't you hate it when people like that are right." Amelia shook her head, her long curly brown hair swaying with the movement.

 

"The first time I met him he said all these awful things about me.  It was like he was reading me,  _deducing_  me.  I almost cried." Molly cringed at the memory.  Sherlock speaking to her in that cold, unfeeling voice.  Calling her a 'hopeless romantic with low self esteem, horrible fashion sense and an only slightly above average intelligence'.  The worst part was that it was all true.

 

She'd been hired by Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother and manager.  After a certain point of the interview, the questions started turning more personal.  Did she handle stress well, was she a particularly emotional person, did she have experience with stubborn children.  When Mycroft gave her the job he'd warned her that Sherlock could be...difficult, but Molly figured a grown man couldn't be  _that bad._

 

She was so very wrong.

 

"Why do you still work for him then?" Amelia raised an eyebrow.

 

"Well, the pay is excellent, and he  _is_  a genius." Molly sighed.

 

"And easy on the eyes." Amelia added, smiling behind her mug.  "Don't know how you get any work done with him around.  I saw the poster for his  _Fermata_ concert, the one with him and the violin and the starry sky.  God he's gorgeous." 

 

"Not that he'd even notice that kind of attention." Molly rolled her eyes.  Either he didn't care how women reacted to him, or he didn't notice.  Molly wasn't sure.  At first she thought it was just her attention Sherlock ignored, but she'd witnessed fans come on to him shamelessly, without a single response.

 

"You know what your problem is?  You're too subtle." Amelia advised.

 

"I'm not actually.  I asked him out for coffee once and he acted like I was taking orders. I mean I've tried flirting with him but it doesn't really work if he doesn't flirt _back_." Molly almost growled in frustration.

 

"You've got to come on a little stronger."

 

"Stronger's not going to work with him." 

 

"Well then I hate to say it, but you have to forget about him."  Amelia put her tea back on the table.  Molly brought her legs up onto the couch in a side kneel.

 

"I've tried,really.  Have you ever met someone you just can't get over?  You meet them and there's just something about them...Every time I talk to other guys I find myself comparing them to Sherlock.  I don't mean to, it just happens." Molly pulled her hair to one side out of habit.

 

" _Molly_." Amelia groaned.  "It's been how many years?  You can't keep holding out for him."  Molly opened her mouth to protest, when her phone buzzed.  She'd learned to keep her phone always on hand, fully charged.

 

Molly tapped the screen, frowning.

 

"What is it?" Amelia leaned forward.

 

"It's Mycroft.  Must be at the dentist, he never texts." She muttered.

 

"What's he saying?" Amelia pressed.  Molly scanned through the text, groaning.

 

"It's Sherlock, he's not at his private concert, and John's not answering his phone.  Sorry Amelia, I have to go.  Mycroft's meeting me at Baker Street after his appointment's over." Amelia got up as Molly flew through her flat, searching for her keys.

 

"I'll see you later then.  Remember what I said, yeah?  You've got to put yourself out there more if you want him to notice you.  If not, you have to get over him." Amelia followed Molly out the door.

 

"Thanks Amelia, I'll keep that in mind." Molly smiled distractedly.

 

"So what's this concert he's playing at?  Haven't heard about it in the news." The girls walked down the stairs together.

 

"Nothing really, just some rich family who wanted to have him perform for them up close." Molly shrugged nonchalantly.  They came to the parking lot.  "I'll see you later Amelia!" She waved goodbye.   

 

As soon as Amelia got in her car, Molly practically jumped into hers.  Flustered, she prayed to every deity in existence that there would be no traffic.  She needed to get to Baker Street as soon as possible.  She hadn't been able to tell Amelia because of confidentiality contracts, but Sherlock Holmes was late for his appointment at the Buckingham Palace.


	5. Brillante

Molly got to 221 B Baker Street in record time, but the straightened knocker indicated Mycroft had made it there first. She rushed up the stairs and threw open the door. There was Mycroft, dressed in another one of his suits. He looked aggravated, which was saying a lot. He showed even less emotion than his little brother. Said little brother was standing across from Mycroft, wrapped in a bed sheet.

Molly caught her breath for a second, then tilted her head.

"Sherlock...Are you wearing any pants?"

"No." He replied, meeting her eyes for a brief second.

"Okay." She nodded, looking away.

"We are about to be in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." Mycroft said pleasantly. However, the underlying tone was threatening.

"They can't just summon me. I'm not a dog at their beck and call. That's John's job and he's not even doing it that well." Sherlock retorted. Molly had been wondering where John was. Everyone had been texting and calling, but his phone wasn't even on.

"They're not 'summoning' you, they're paying you. A lot." Molly pointed out. As usual, she was ignored.

"Sherlock, I know you have problems with authority, but we are talking about being engaged by the _highest_ authority." Mycroft was getting impatient.

"I'm not the commonwealth." He glared at his older brother.

"Yes, you are, and you will act accordingly. For once, you will stop behaving like a spoiled child. You will go into your room and get dressed."

"What for?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Your audience." Mycroft answered, barely containing his exasperation.

"Yes, the audience I don't even get to see because they're afraid I'll turn my violin into a machine gun." He remarked dryly. Molly remembered Sherlock hadn't been thrilled with the idea to begin with. Security at the Palace was intensifying, and even though the 'illustrious yet anonymous' audience themselves had asked Sherlock to play for them, there was to be no direct contact of any kind.

"It is a matter of national security. Grow up." Mycroft snapped. Sherlock moved past him but Mycroft stepped on his blanket. It slipped down as he moved forward. Alarmed, Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed the sheet before he was completely naked. Molly blushed and looked away quickly. But not before she got a clear view of his smooth muscled back.

“Get off my sheet.” Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth.

“Or what.”

“Or I’ll just walk away.”

“I’ll let you.”

“Boys, please. Not now, we’re late already.” Molly interrupted the brothers.

“Who. Is. My. Audience.” Sherlock growled.

“Take a look at the venue and make a deduction. You are to entertain the highest in the land. Now for God’s sake,” Mycroft glanced at Molly for a second, getting his anger under control. “Put your clothes on!”

Minutes later the trio was speeding away in a helicopter, compliments of the anonymous audience. Sherlock was silent and brooding, but dressed impeccably in an expensive black suit and a white striped dress shirt underneath.

Upon arrival they were searched vigorously. Sherlock bristled as one of the security guards inspected his violin and bow.

“Careful, a minute of music coming out of that is worth more than your wife’s annual salary. A word of advice, tell her to sharpen her scissors. No one wants a hairdresser with dull blades.” He took back his violin from the confused guard.

Molly checked her phone one last time before giving it, and the rest of her belongings, to the security team. Still nothing from John. Neither of the Holmes’ seemed worried, but it wasn’t like him not to keep his phone on. At least Sherlock had a vast array of solo repertoire

“Follow me.” Two secret service agents escorted them through the Palace. While the brothers seemed unaffected by the luxury of the place, Molly couldn’t help but admire the grandness of it all. Mycroft was right. They were in the heart of the British Nation. The high ceilings that seemed to reach the sky created an otherworldly feeling. Intricate gold designs covered the white walls, and gigantic crystal chandeliers illuminated the rooms. The floor was carpeted with luxurious red and the furniture mirrored the walls with gold and white tones. Even the ashtrays were beautifully crafted.

“In that door, there are two chairs waiting for you.” Molly and Mycroft were ushered into a dark room. It was almost pitch black, except for the dim light from a very small stage ahead of them. It looked more like a slightly raised platform rather than a performing space. Sherlock strode onto the platform from an unseen entrance, and from the look on his face, he agreed.

Molly glanced around the room. As the light from the stage only went so far, the rest of the room was completely dark. She guessed that was where the audience was.

Without warning, Sherlock started playing.

He started with a lively concerto. A feeling of excitement electrified the room as the tempo quickened. The look of disdain on Sherlock's face vanished as he was lost in his music. Nothing could transform him as much as his violin.

He moved on to a serenade; slow and bittersweet. The mood immediately changed. Sherlock's violin sang of the joy of love, and the heart break of loss. Molly teared up as his fingers flew across the finger board. For a man who claimed to be free of emotions, he definitely knew how to convey them.

The concert continued. Sherlock played everything, from classics to pieces he'd written himself. He filled the room with sound. The acoustics were more echoey than Molly was used to, but it added to the sound somehow.

Sherlock finished his performance with a solo version of a double Bach concerto. The last chord echoed through the room, and silence descended. Sherlock stiffly bowed.

Finally, clapping sounded from behind Molly, about five sets. It was strange, hearing the noise but not seeing the source. Almost unsettling. Molly joined in the clapping, as did Mycroft. Sherlock left the stage, and the two followed after him. With one last look around the room shrouded in darkness, Molly closed the door behind her.


	6. Subito

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, my beta jacesmangoes was away and I didn't dare publish anything without her say so :) Anyway, in this chapter I reference Soo lin. Personally, I really liked her so in this AU she's alive and thriving. Enjoy!

The trio took a cab back to the flat.

 

"Has John bothered to text us?" Sherlock asked.  He tried to sound annoyed but Molly could always read him.  He was worried.

 

"I'm sure he's fine." Molly soothed.

 

"Of course he's fine." Sherlock scoffed, but the worry remained.  Despite his protests, Molly knew he cared about John.  They were best friends, even though they'd only met two years ago.  

 

Molly had been talking to Mike, a friend who worked with old music manuscripts and scores, about how Sherlock needed a new pianist.  His old one, Victor Trevor, was moving to Australia.  Mike mentioned he had a friend who played piano very well, and was conveniently unemployed.  This friend was John.  

 

Molly got in touch with John and listened to him play.  After deeming him more than qualified to accompany Sherlock, and warning John about the violinist's eccentricities, Molly introduced the two.  After only a few days John moved into 221 B.

 

"There you are!"  Mrs. Hudson greeted them as they returned to Baker Street.  "John's upstairs, he's been at the hospital all day."

 

"What happened?" Molly asked worriedly.

 

"Car accident, just awful." Mrs. Hudson's hands fluttered anxiously.

 

"Was he injured?" Sherlock demanded.

 

"Go see."  Mrs. Hudson shook her head.  Sherlock took off, and Molly rushed after him.

 

The three hurried up the stairs to find John seated in his usual chair.  He put down the newspaper and stood.  Molly's gasped.  His left arm was in a sling that wrapped around almost his entire torso.

 

"Oh my god."

 

"It's not as bad as it looks." John comforted Molly.

 

"Hardly.  It appears you have a broken collarbone.  You won't be able to use your left arm for a minimum of four months." Sherlock analyzed.

 

"Three months." John corrected.

 

"Four."

 

"Sherlock, I was studying to be a doctor.  It's three."

 

"Yes, then you failed and dropped out of medical school.  Four months."  Sherlock slumped down on the couch.

 

"Does it really matter how long.  Both of you are supposed to be playing a concert in a few weeks."  Mycroft interrupted.

 

"I can't, I can barely move my fingers.  I'm sorry, the car came out of nowhere.  I didn't have time to stop." John apologized.

 

"It's not your fault." Molly assured him.

 

"Tell that to my insurance company." 

 

"Did the police catch them at least?" She inquired.

 

"No, he ran off.  I barely remember what the car looked like."

 

"Soo lin." Sherlock blurted out.  He was lying on his couch, eyes staring at the ceiling and hands together under his chin in concentration.

 

"The cellist?  What about her?" John sat back down in his chair.

 

"She doesn't  _just_  play cello, she used to play piano.  She could accompany me at the concert.  You learned the music so it can't be that challenging, she could pick it up quickly enough."  Sherlock elaborated.  John opened his mouth, probably to respond to the insult, but Mycroft cut in first.

 

"Soo lin is on tour in China.  I doubt she would fly almost halfway around the world for one concert."

 

"She owes me.  If I hadn't chosen her to accompany me on her cello she never would've been discovered." Sherlock muttered.  Feeling awkward standing, Molly sat at the piano bench.

 

"I'll do it.  Granted I'd need a few hours to learn piano, then a few more for the music." Mycroft conceded.  He shared his brother's talent for music, but rarely used it.

 

"I regret having to share parents with you, let alone the stage." Sherlock scoffed, still staring at the ceiling.

 

"Mrs. Hudson, she played piano when she was younger.  I could rewrite the piano part at a lower difficulty." Sherlock declared.

 

"She has arthritis!" John exclaimed.

 

"Her hip will be fine, she's sitting down."

 

"It's in her  _hands_."

 

"It'll be good exercise then."

 

"We're not putting her under that stress." John said firmly.

 

"Fine." Sherlock glowered.

 

"We could hold an audition." John suggested.

 

"Not enough time." Molly shook her head.  Suddenly, Sherlock sat up.

 

"You." He pointed at Molly.

 

"W-What?" She squeaked.

 

"You play piano, it was on your resume."

 

"Well...yes.  Not p-professionally.  I mean, I dabble but..."`

 

"Oh you do more than just 'dabble'.  You assessed John before bringing him to me, made sure he had the right skill level and technique because you knew what to look for.  Your fingers twitch when he plays.  You hold your wrist higher than normal when you write, like a piano player.  Habits like those don't form from just 'dabbling'."

 

"You play?  Really?" John turned to Molly.

 

"Yes but-"

 

"Play something." Sherlock ordered.  Knowing arguing wouldn't work, Molly sighed and turned to the piano.

 

She chose one of her favourite pieces, Milonga del Angel.  It wasn't too advanced, but it covered a range of techniques she knew Sherlock would want to see.  She smiled softly.  She had an old upright piano in her flat she'd run through pieces now and then, but nothing compared to John's baby grand.  Fingers flying, Molly concentrated only on the music, forgetting how Sherlock was probably analyzing every finger she put down.  She finished the song, and the last note hung in the air.

 

"Exceptional." Sherlock murmured.  Startled at the compliment, Molly turned to face him, looking for signs of sarcasm.  What she found made her heart skip a beat.  She saw respect, surprise, and even admiration.   _Not for you, for your skills.  Differentiate Molly, damnit._   She thought to herself.

 

"Thank you." She blushed.

 

"Fantastic, well then it's solved.  Molly will fill in for me." John smiled.

 

"Well-" Molly started.

 

"I wouldn't be so happy about it John, she might just replace you permanently." Sherlock smirked.

 

"Well that's all very flattering but-"

 

"Perhaps Molly should stay in the flat for a few weeks, you two will be practicing quite a lot, no use commuting every time." Mycroft interrupted.

 

"Excuse me!" Molly almost shouted.  Stunned by her uncharacteristic outburst, the three men stared at her.  "I...I can't perform.  I get stage fright.  Bad.  I mean I'm okay in front of you three but...in front of strangers, I just can't.  That's why I never pursued piano.  My exam marks were terrible because I choked up every time I had to play one." She confessed.

 

"Well if that's all, I'm sure it'll be find.  Perfectly natural to be nervous, it helps to drink a glass of wine before you go on.  Or three, whatever works." John shrugged it off.

 

"You don't understand, I get shaky and dizzy.  I forget all the music, my fingers trip over themselves." Molly tried to explain.

 

"You'll be fine, we'll work on the stage fright, don't worry." John still waved it off.  

 

Molly could see none of them understood the gravity of the situation.  She was however, Sherlock's best bet.  The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint him.  She would have to, like John said, 'work on the stage fright'.  And she only had three weeks to do it.


	7. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even begin to apologize for the lateness. My only defense, I got caught up in another AU idea that hopefully will come out soon!

"He's my cat!  I can't just leave him alone for weeks!" Molly yelled at the infuriating man.

 

"He's a distraction.  He's only been here a few days and already everything I own is covered in his hair." Sherlock retorted..

 

"That's not his fault!"

 

"You're right, it's the owner's.  Now you can either drop him off at your flat, or I'll call animal control."  Sherlock threatened.

 

"For what?"

 

"Trying to kill me."

 

"He wasn't trying to kill you, he was just...saying hello."

 

"With his claws." He pointed out.

 

"Are you seriously afraid of Toby?" She laughed, disbelieving.

 

"Don't be ridiculous.  I just find him unsettling.  Cats have been known to eat the corpses of their owners."

 

"Toby would never eat me." She pouted slightly, scooping up the cat in question into her arms.  Sherlock took a small step back.

 

"That's what he wants you to think." He eyed the feline with apprehension.

 

"Sherlock, my cat is not a homicidal psychopath.  And he is staying."

 

"Only if he stays in your room downstairs with the door firmly shut."

 

"He needs more space to lounge!  How would you feel if you where cooped up in one room for weeks?"

 

"Fine, he can take that floor but if I catch him up here I'll get John to shave him."  Sherlock grouched.  Molly laughed, picturing John wrestling with a half-naked Toby.

 

"Deal." She smiled, and promptly took Toby down the stairs.  She'd been staying in Sherlock's flat for a week, and there were still a few living arrangements they disagreed on.  Pets, for example.

 

"Sorry Toby, but I'm living with a mad man who signs my checks.  I have to play by his rules." She apologized.  Molly gently let down Toby.  She heard the front door open.

 

"Hi John!" She waved from up a flight of stairs.

 

"Hello Molly!  Hello Toby."  He greeted as Toby brushed against John's legs.

 

"How was physio?" She asked.

 

"Painful, but whatever helps me get back the use of my arm I guess."  John had to go to physical therapy twice a week.

 

"Yeah.  Well Sherlock and I just took a break from practicing." It wasn't exactly a break.  They'd been rehearsing when Toby jumped on the piano and hissed at Sherlock.  This had prompted a lengthy argument.  "I was just going to get some lunch at Speedy's, do you want anything?"

 

"No thanks, I-"

 

"Molly we still have work to do!" Sherlock shouted from upstairs.

 

"So close." Molly muttered.  The past week she hadn't been able to eat a proper lunch with Sherlock wanting to practice every waking moment.

 

"You get used to eating lunch at 3." John chuckled slightly.  With a sigh, Molly headed back into the flat.

 

She found Sherlock lying on the couch.  Glaring at the hypocrisy, Molly put a hand on her hip.

 

"What?" She demanded.

 

"Bar 65 of the Bach Suite.  Play it."

 

Molly rolled her eyes, but sat at the bench and played.

 

"No." He interrupted her after only a few bars.

 

She started again.  She made it a few more bars before-

 

"Nope." Sherlock popped the 'p' at the end.

 

Frustrated, she started over.

 

"Wrong." He called.  Molly stopped.

 

"Enlighten me." She growled.

 

"It's your solo part, dig into it, will you?  You sound like a machine.  Slow it down a little, add a crescendo, do  _something_." He criticized.

 

"Sherlock.  This is a  _Baroque_  piece, the composer wrote it like this.  That was his vision when he wrote it, and that's what I'm playing.  They didn't 'slow it down a little' or 'crescendo', this was originally for a harpsichord!" Harpsichords actually had no dynamics, only the really fancy ones had loud and soft as an option.

 

"In case you hadn't noticed, you are not  _playing_  a harpsichord so stop  _sounding_  like one." He retorted.

 

"This is how it's supposed to sound!" She argued.

 

"It's called 'artistic liberty'."

 

"It's called 'integrity to the original vision'."  Sherlock got up from the couch.  He sat next to her on the small piano bench, almost touching.  She refused to look at him.

 

"I need you to work with me Molly.  I understand your hesitation, but you need to accept my criticism like John does.  I'm not asking you to change the notes, I just want you to add some personal style.  We're not copying the piece, we're presenting our interpretation.  That's what people expect when they come to hear me play." He spoke honestly, without his usual snark.  Molly sighed, knowing she couldn't resist his appeals when he was so… _human_.

 

"Right.  Okay.  I'll 'dig into it'.  I'll be John." She responded softly, and looked at him.  He smiled gently at her, uncharacteristically sentimental.

 

"I’m not asking you to be John, I’m asking you to be _you_." And with that, he rose from the bench.  She beamed, and started the bar again.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

"It's just a rehearsal Molly." John reminded her for the thousandth time.

 

"It's a stage, with strangers watching, and listening, and recording." Molly continued to panic.

 

"Just tune them out, you're not playing for them, you're playing for yourself.  Well, and Sherlock." Molly grabbed John's arm.

 

"Not.  Helping." She spoke through gritted teeth.  Her stomach was in knots, and she felt like passing out.  Head spinning, Molly had to remember to keep breathing.

 

"We're on." Sherlock appeared around the corner.  He frowned when he saw Molly.

 

"Panic attack." John explained.

 

"Do people really have those?" He snorted.

 

"Yes and sympathy is generally the appropriate response." Molly snapped.

 

"It's only a rehearsal." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

"Brilliant deduction." Molly glared.

 

"It wasn't a deduction, it was an observation.  If you're going to mock me at least do it right." He retorted.  Molly balled her fists and stood to face him.

 

"Look-"

 

"There, now she's up.  Amazing what anger does to a person.  Let's go, we're on." Sherlock strode out onto the stage.

 

"That git." John muttered disbelievingly.

 

"Well, it worked." Molly had to admit.

 

She walked on stage, anger fueling each step.  She took her place at the piano and Sherlock nodded at her to start the first piece of the concert's repertoire.  Still fuming, she began to play.

 

Sherlock's method kept her going for the first few minutes of the rehearsal, but eventually the panic set in.

 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see people staring, writing notes, speaking into headpieces.  The lighting people started experimenting, settling on all lights off except for a spotlight that shone on them both.  Hot under the direct beam, Molly began to sweat.

 

As she felt the gaze of the entire theater staff, her fingers started tripping and missing notes, which in turn attracted more stares.  It was her music exams all over again.

 

The hours stretched by, and Molly continued screwing up.  Rushing, losing her spot in the music, and struggling to regain herself.  It was disastrous.

 

Finally, the rehearsal was over.  Blushing furiously, Molly almost ran off stage.  In her hurry she ran right into Mycroft.

 

"Well Miss Hooper, that was..."

 

"Horrid?" Molly suggested.

 

"Informative." Sherlock corrected her from behind.  "I initially assumed you were exaggerating the severity of your stage fright, but now I see that you weren't."

 

"So you were wrong." John deadpanned.  Sherlock twitched.

 

"Unimportant.  Now that I've gathered the required data I can respond accordingly."

 

"And how exactly do you plan to 'respond'?" She asked.  He gave her that 'Why would I spoil the surprise and tell you?' smile.  Heartbreakingly beautiful, and blood-boiling.

 

"I take it you're not going to let any of us in on the plan." John sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

"Nope."

 

"Fantastic." Molly glared, knowing it was no use begging for whatever cryptic statement Sherlock would eventually divulge.  She was just going to have to prepare for whatever plot he had planned, and hope she came out alive.


End file.
